


Ensnared

by deadlifts



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Sex, Chains, Choking, Dubious Consent, Hair-pulling, Imprisonment, M/M, Objectification
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 08:02:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23968051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlifts/pseuds/deadlifts
Summary: Hubert doesn’t need an excuse. Sylvain is his prisoner; he will do with him as he pleases.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 20
Kudos: 145
Collections: FE3H Kink Meme





	Ensnared

**Author's Note:**

> Please check the tags before reading. Note that there is mention of an assumed (but unconfirmed) exchange of sexual favors with a guard. 
> 
> This was written for the [kink meme](https://3houseskinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/476.html).
> 
> Prompt:  
> Hubert/Sylvain - prisoner of war  
> 1) Fuck the Geneva Convention  
> 2) Sylvain is a hot piece of ass and also Hubert's captive and there is no reason he shouldn't indulge

The chain is entirely unnecessary. 

Sylvain is imprisoned in a comfortable but well-guarded room. The door locks from the outside and the room is too high up for the window to lead to anything other than death. He will not escape. If he is foolish enough to attempt it, he will be killed. There is no reason for the metal shackle tightly fastened around his neck, nor is there an excuse for the way he’s kept tethered to the wall, given only the marginal freedom of a misbehaved cur. 

But Hubert doesn’t need an excuse. Sylvain is his prisoner; he will do with him as he pleases. And upon entering the room and seeing Sylvain lounging in bed in an awkward position, it very much pleases him to observe the chain pulled dangerously taut to allow Sylvain’s sloppy sprawl. 

Sylvain smiles as Hubert walks to the side of the bed, the corners of his mouth pulled up in a way that nearly seems earnest, as though Sylvain is regarding a lover he hasn’t seen in a while. Were he anyone else, Hubert might be fooled by it, but Sylvain’s lowbrow disarming tactics are hardly enough to ruffle him. 

What does get his attention is the way Sylvain spreads himself out on the bed, opening his arms and legs both in mock-presentation. The movement is as practiced as Sylvain’s smile. How often, Hubert wonders, has he done this for the many women he has taken to his bed: unfurled himself like a flower toward the sun, waiting to be picked and put on display? 

All flowers wither and Sylvain is no exception; eventually, he will bare himself one time too many, and all it will take is one final touch to make him wilt. 

It’s a disappointment. Sylvain’s potential burned bright within him until nothing remained but the ash of what could have been. Had he joined Edelgard — 

But such thoughts are unnecessary. Sylvain did not join Edelgard. Instead, he is here, tilting his head to the side with that smile slathered across his face, asking, “Miss me?” 

Hubert nearly feels compelled to roll his eyes. “Hardly. I am here on behalf of Lady Edelgard.” 

“So _she’s_ the one who misses me.” Sylvain’s grin grows wider. He raises his arm and drapes it over the taut chain. Hubert watches as his throat muscles tense against the increased pull, the way his Adam’s apple struggles around the metal shackle. “It’s a shame she isn’t here to tell me that herself.” 

“Lady Edelgard has more important matters to attend to than the entertainment of prisoners of war.” 

“Sure,” Sylvain replies flippantly, waving the hand that dangles over the chain. “I'm disappointed, is all. I always wondered what she would be like.” He looks Hubert in the eye. “In bed.” 

Hubert folds his arms. “If that is an attempt to provoke a reaction from me, you’ve failed miserably.” He hates hearing Lady Edelgard spoken about in such an uncouth manner, but such inanity is not going to get a rise out of him — especially given that the comment is both predictable and uninspired. 

“I’m just stating a fact.” Sylvain shrugs. 

This is the difference between Sylvain and Hubert: whereas Sylvain hopes to provoke his enemy, presumably flirting with the prospect of retaliation, Hubert knows how to go for the kill. He absolutely understands how to break Sylvain, and were it up to him, he’d have brought Felix with him and flaunted his loyalty to Edelgard’s cause like a prize. Or perhaps he would have brought Ingrid and allowed her to divulge her newfound admiration for Lady Edelgard. 

He would have reopened old wounds and rubbed salt in them until Sylvain had no choice but to admit they hurt. 

But Sylvain has a purpose here, and that purpose is — 

“You want information on Claude.” 

This is unexpected. Hubert has to resist appearing outwardly surprised. He is impressed. This is a far better version of Sylvain than the one from moments prior — smart and assessing, able to predict an enemy’s moves. Not the bumbling idiot he so frequently makes himself out to be. 

This is the Sylvain that glimmered beneath the surface whenever he and Hubert had a rare opportunity to play chess during their time at the Academy. This Sylvain is alluring, capable of captivating Hubert’s attention, especially when he leans forward to show off the way the shackle digs into his neck. 

“How could you have information on Claude?” Hubert asks disinterestedly. “You have been too entrenched in the Kingdom’s affairs to see what is happening around you.” 

“True,” Sylvain replies. “I don’t know much about the Alliance. But I do have a little insight into the man himself. How he thinks. Where he came from…” 

Hubert downplays his interest. “I find that unlikely.” 

“Doesn’t matter,” Sylvain says. Now he sits back against the headboard, dropping his arm from its perch and restoring slack to the chain. “If I did know, I wouldn’t tell you anyway.” 

This is when Hubert should bring out his more extreme methods of convincing someone to talk. A little bit of magic, a hint of a weapon, some spilled blood, and he could have Sylvain singing in no time. 

But he likes this. Sylvain is finally playing the game, trying to lure Hubert as though he can hold some power despite being chained and entirely at Hubert’s mercy. 

Hubert wants more. 

He steps forward and takes Sylvain’s chin in his gloved hand, sparing no gentleness in the way he jerks him forward, pulling him against the protest of the chain. Sylvain is effectively choked into momentary silence, but still manages to grin, accepting Hubert in all his wretchedness. He looks like a man ready to jump from a high-flying wyvern just to watch his mortality rise toward him in the form of the ground. 

“Do you want me to kill you?” Hubert asks, voice low. “Is that your play? A realization of your death wish?” 

“Hey,” Sylvain croaks around the constriction of his throat. “Who told you I have a death wish?” 

Hubert moves in close, hand navigating from Sylvain’s chin to his neck. His thumb brushes over his exposed Adam's apple. His lips nearly touch Sylvain’s ear as he whispers, “Felix. He told me everything.” 

Sylvain laughs, but Hubert thinks he senses an edge in it now — something twisted and less compromising. “You should hear the things Edelgard used to say about you.” 

It is meant to sting, and unfortunately, his words are effective. Hubert schools himself as best he can, but he can feel the anger threatening to break free. He knows that Edelgard and Sylvain once worked toward something akin to friendship, back when Edelgard wanted to rescue him from Dimitri’s clutches before it was too late. 

Hubert squeezes Sylvain’s throat, putting pressure on his trachea. Sylvain raises his chin to give him better access. 

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Sylvain taunts as best he can with his airflow restricted. Whether he means the promise of death or the promise of Hubert’s growing erection, Hubert doesn’t know. 

It doesn't matter. They’re too close. Sylvain is too smart for his own good and his body is far too inviting. 

Hubert releases him. “Enough of this. You are wasting my time.” 

Sylvain lolls his head back and spreads his legs wide so Hubert can see that he, too, is growing hard. It’s a tease — instead of protecting his pieces, revealing his moves one by one, Sylvain has thrown everything on the table. 

_Fuck me,_ his eyes say as he stretches his arms, allowing his shirt to hike up his midsection, revealing scarred skin. _I dare you._

Hubert will not be debased. 

He will, however, do the debasing. Because looking at Sylvain’s chains, his neck reddened from mistreatment, his eyes begging to be put in his place, to be brought to tears, to be reminded of his worthlessness — 

Hubert wants him. Face down, weeping into his pillow, begging for Hubert’s non-existent kindness. 

“On your hands and knees,” he orders. 

Sylvain raises his eyebrows. “What for?” 

“I will not ask again.” 

“That’s too bad,” Sylvain murmurs, smiling sweetly. 

Hubert prefers to use refinement when obtaining what he wants. He values subtlety, secrecy, and a helping of controlled intimidation to outright manhandling a person. 

That does not mean he is above dirtying his hands when he must. 

He does not ask again. He kneels on the bed to shove Sylvain down on his side, then pushes him over a second time. Sylvain remains pliant, allowing himself to be maneuvered, laughing against the pillow once he is face down. “Not as kinky as I expected.” His voice is muffled by the fabric but Hubert can, quite unfortunately, make out every word. 

Hubert moves behind him and grabs a fistful of his hair, forcing his upper body off the bed, the chain once again pulled tight. Sylvain gasps, but finally raises himself on all fours. 

Hubert doesn’t release his hold as he hisses, “I will remind you of your place.” Pulling his hair with greater force, he adds, “You are my prisoner.” 

“I’m Edelgard’s prisoner,” Sylvain says with effort, pushing his ass back against Hubert’s cock, their clothing causing an uncomfortable but wanted friction. Hubert’s cock grows firmer; he has to resist the urge to roll his hips in response to the tease. 

Hubert doesn’t grace Sylvain's comment with a reply. Keeping his hold on Sylvain’s hair, he uses his free hand to undo his belt and slide his pants and undergarments down far enough to free his cock of clothing, but not an iota more. Sylvain shimmies his own pants completely off of his body with expert movements, despite the difficulties of his positioning. 

“I have — a surprise for you,” Sylvain explains, voice hitching with pain as Hubert tightens his grip in his hair. Sylvain gropes blindly beneath the pillow, attempting to reach something. When he pulls his hand back and holds up a small vial of oil, Hubert finds himself surprised for a second time. 

“Where did you get that?” Hubert asks, thinking that there must be guards to punish, knowing that Sylvain had to offer up something in trade for such a gift. The thought should sicken him, but he finds this aspect of Sylvain to be far more interesting than the moron he purports himself to be. He prepared for this, somehow one step ahead of Hubert. 

Hubert likes it. 

His growing interest in Sylvain should be a matter of reflection, but for now, he releases Sylvain’s hair, allowing Sylvain’s head to drop forward 

“It’s a secret,” Sylvain replies without concealing his relief at being freed from Hubert's grip. 

Hubert removes his gloves before taking and uncorking the vial. He lathers himself generously, taking his time as he spreads the oil along his length, but offering nothing to Sylvain. He has not earned the right to be prepped, to be touched in any way other than what Hubert determines to be worthwhile. 

Sylvain presents himself without any shyness or complaint. He spreads his legs and leans forward, giving Hubert full access to his ass. 

“This will not be pleasant for you,” Hubert warns, spreading Sylvain's cheeks and pressing the head of his cock against Sylvain’s tight, unstretched hole. 

“Do you know who I am?” Sylvain asks. “Where I’ve been?” 

It’s a disgusting point, but the self-depreciation that bleeds into Sylvain’s tone makes Hubert’s cock throb in anticipation of fucking him. “I will show you how vile you are,” Hubert promises. 

Without awaiting a reply, he pushes his cock inside of Sylvain with steady but unhurried pressure. Sylvain groans as he takes it, hands clutching at the bedding, but he doesn’t falter. It’s true that he seems made for this, accepting all of Hubert despite the lack of warm-up, even going so far as to press back on his cock, whining a little as Hubert bottoms out. 

Once Sylvain has taken all of him, Hubert pauses to give himself a moment to adjust to the slick warmth of his body, to the way Sylvain subtly clenches around his cock with each breath, threatening to bring him to a premature end. Unlike Sylvain, he does not make a habit of sticking his dick into any willing party; he requires a moment of respite before he can fuck in earnest. 

Sylvain also seems to appreciate the reprieve, his chest heaving with deep breaths, body tense as he adjusts to the way Hubert feels within him. He recovers quicker than Hubert, though — grinds himself backward testingly, causing Hubert to bite his lip to prevent a pathetic whimper from escaping. 

Sylvain tries to look back at him, but the chain will not give him enough slack. Even so, Hubert reaches and places his hand on the back of Sylvain’s head once again, taking a fistful of hair and shoving Sylvain’s head down in the process. 

Sylvain chuckles breathily, “Don’t like to look at what you fuck?” 

Instead feeling irritated by the comment, Hubert hones in on Sylvain’s diction, savoring the way he objectifies himself with his choice of pronoun. “There is nothing to look at,” he replies, bucking his hips hard enough to elicit a sharp gasp from Sylvain. 

After that first thrust, Hubert continues to move his hips, rhythmically pumping into Sylvain. Small sounds escape Sylvain’s throat, wordless and scraping, as he facilitates his fucking by rolling his own hips backwards, matching Hubert’s pace. 

Even on his hands and knees, Sylvain takes being fucked like it is his birthright. 

Hubert decides to put an end to his comfort. He jerks Sylvain’s head back by the hair and grabs his hip with his free hand, upsetting the rhythm of their movement until he has full control over it. Sylvain’s breathing grows erratic, uncontrolled, and then momentarily wild when Hubert pulls all the way out and then shoves himself back inside, over and over, until Sylvain’s small sounds have become loud, panting moans. 

Sylvain looks so good like this, sweat glistening along the small of his back, legs quivering beneath him as he attempts to stay upright, his head still forced up by Hubert’s hold, that chain still restricting his range of motion. He _sounds_ so good, his moans giving way to stuttering, vocalized breaths. But more than that, he _feels_ so good, his body radiating heat around Hubert as though that is its sole purpose, engulfing him with every thrust, pulling him closer to the edge than he wants to be, because he wants this to last — wants to render Sylvain into a sobbing mess. 

To steady himself, he slows the fervor of his thrusts and asks with breathless disdain, “What are you?” 

He anticipates — he _wants_ — a cheeky response, something meant to tease or irritate him into further action, but Sylvain's answer is simple and empty. 

He says, “Nothing,” and Hubert’s control absolutely unravels. 

A desperate moan snakes its way beyond his throat while he comes, his body lurching against the unexpected onslaught of pleasure. His cock pulsates with the fervor of having been denied a little too long, forcing Hubert to ride each eruptive wave of bliss without consideration of how he must sound, how his hand releases Sylvain’s hair unbidden, how he clutches both of Sylvain’s hips as though they are all that remain between him and his desire to collapse forward. His mind blanks so thoroughly, only the echo of that one word remains. 

_Nothing_. 

It takes Hubert a moment to return to himself, and once he regains control of his senses, he realizes Sylvain is laughing. The sound is weak and whimpery but undoubtedly amused, even though Sylvain must be aching for his own release, must want to be touched, must feel unsatisfied as Hubert finally pulls away, leaving him gaping and leaking. 

“That was too easy,” Sylvain declares. There’s no strength to his voice, but he still manages to sound confident as he transitions from presenting himself on all fours to propping himself up against the headboard. His erection is still perfectly firm, awaiting a touch that will not be given. 

It must be uncomfortable. He must feel hollowed out and empty, his cock must yearn for release — and yet he smiles proudly, unaffected, appearing more content than he should. 

“What are you babbling about?” Hubert asks. In contrast to Sylvain, Hubert feels unsteady, shaken, too far out of his own control. He pulls up his pants to conceal his mess and pushes himself off of the bed, attempting to smooth his appearance. 

“What I mean to say," Sylvain says with a downward glance toward Hubert's crotch, "is you'll be back for more." 

Hubert narrows his eyes. “When I return, it will be to torture the information out of you.” 

“I’ll be waiting,” Sylvain promises. 

Hubert knows Sylvain is right. He knows that he has been ensnared in a trap of his own making. He knows that Sylvain has won. 

He also knows that Sylvain has never been more alluring than he is in this moment. 

As he leaves the room, he thinks, _You're nothing_. 

He does not know if the voice in his head is Sylvain's or his own.


End file.
